


The Little Things

by time_converges



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Joanlock - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 11,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/time_converges/pseuds/time_converges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of (mostly) unrelated stories for the Watson's Woes July Prompt Challenge at livejournal.<br/>(character death in chapter 9)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apply Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> “It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.” 
> 
> – from "The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes medical knowledge is less than helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP Prompt #1 - Tempting Fate: "What's the worst that could happen?"  
> 

“How about if I just shoot you both?”

“I’ll tell you why you won’t do that, Mr. Madison,” Sherlock said, taking a half step forward to place himself between Joan and the gunman. His voice echoed a little in the empty warehouse.

Joan saw the man’s finger twitch on the trigger a half second before he pulled it. “No!” she shouted, and she shoved Sherlock hard out of the way, fast enough that the bullet caught him in the shoulder instead of full in the chest, but not fast enough to avoid it entirely. She followed him down to the floor, reaching desperately for him, braced for the impact of a second bullet into her own flesh, but it didn’t come. She glanced wildly toward where the gunman had been, in time to see him disappearing around the corner.

“Shh, you’re okay,” she said as she pressed one hand over the wound and fumbled her phone out of her pocket with the other. 

Sherlock looked up at her, surprise and pain in his face. “He shouldn’t have pulled the trigger—“

“Shh,” she said to him, and then resumed quickly telling the dispatcher where to send the ambulance. She tossed the phone down and pressed both hands over the wound. She had to keep pressure on it, and not think.

“I miscalculated. And you appear to have saved me again,” he said, reaching up with his uninjured arm to squeeze her shoulder. 

“The ambulance is on the way, just stay still, okay?” she said, trying to ignore her brain unhelpfully providing a list of every way this could still go wrong. Sherlock could bleed out, right here – oh god, not again – or could throw a clot and it could go to his heart or lungs or brain. The ambulance could have trouble finding them. Mr. Madison could come back with the gun. Sherlock could react to the anesthesia at the hospital. Her mind started on a litany of medical complications during recovery, but she forced herself to stop and focus. Right now the bleeding seemed manageable, and the ambulance was on the way. She just had to keep the pressure on, and focus, and he’d be fine. 

She counted the seconds until she heard the wail of the sirens approaching.


	2. Favorite Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is surprisingly possessive of his favorite things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP Prompt #2 - Yellow

Sherlock clattered down the stairs to where she sat on the sofa, reading through a case file.

“Watson, what do you think about the significance of the carpet—“ He stopped abruptly in front of where she was sitting. “Are you wearing my socks?” he asked, the pitch of his voice suddenly higher.

She glanced up at him, and then down at her feet, clad in the yellow and black striped socks that reminded her of the bees. “Maybe? I found them in my clean laundry.” She wiggled her toes. “My feet were cold.”

“Ah. As I was saying, do you think the carpet fibers—“ He stopped again. “They were in your laundry?”

She nodded. “Yes. Sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind, and they are warm. Do you want them back?” She didn’t move to take them off.

“But—“

“You borrow my things all the time without asking. I honestly didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t, of course. They’re just socks.” He turned to the table, whatever idea he had about the carpet fibers clearly gone from his mind. Joan returned to her reading, although she watched him from the corner of her eye as he picked up and set down various objects from the table – the paperweight, a case file, a padlock.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“What about the carpet fibers?” she asked.

“Never mind, it was just an idle thought.” He turned to her again, but didn’t continue.

She sighed. “I’ll go get my slippers so you can have the socks back.”

“No, no, your physical comfort is important,” he replied, waving his hand at her. “It’s fine.”

“It’s clearly not fine, but okay.”

He sat down, and was silent for a few moments. “It’s just that those are my favorites.”

“I will give them back, I promise.”

“Of course. It’s of no matter, really.” He tapped his fingers on the table.

She sighed again, then reached down and peeled the socks off, aware that he was watching her every move. She walked over to him, the floor cold against her bare feet. She took his hand and placed the socks in it, closing his fingers around them, noticing that he caught and held his breath when she touched him. “There you go, safe and sound,” she said. On impulse, she leaned down to whisper in his ear. “They’re my favorites, too,” she said, before turning to go upstairs to find her slippers. When she returned, slippers safely on her feet, he was still sitting in the same position, looking bemusedly down at the socks in his hand.


	3. Design and Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson and another dead body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the JWP picture prompt [here](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1282916.html) (image of a skull carved into a leaf)
> 
> "There's design, and there's art. Good design is total harmony. There's no better designer than nature - if you look at a branch or a leaf, it's perfect. It's all function. Art is different. It's about emotion. It's about suffering and beauty - but mostly suffering!" Diane von Furstenberg

The dry leaves crunched underfoot, but the ground underneath was mostly mud, and Joan was grateful she had changed into her hiking boots before they had responded to the call from Marcus. He met them at the perimeter of the crime scene tape, in the center of the wooded area, and lifted it so they could duck underneath.

“Who found the body?” Sherlock asked, his gaze already scanning the surroundings.

“Birdwatchers,” Marcus replied. “They called it in around 5 a.m.”

The body was face up, surrounded by artfully arranged piles of leaves. She catalogued the particulars quickly: white male, middle aged, still dressed. His arms had been folded across his chest, and there were leaves scattered over his body as well. Sherlock handed her a pair of gloves, and they both quickly snapped them on as they approached carefully.

“Mind where you step,” he said softly, and she nodded.

Joan knelt next to the body, mindful not to disturb the area too much, although the crime scene people had already catalogued everything. Sherlock paced, examining the surroundings. She looked down at the leaves scattered on the body.

“Sherlock, look at this,” she said, and he moved quickly to crouch next to her. 

“The leaves,” he said. 

She picked up one of the leaves, carefully. The leaf was dry and brittle, but cut into it – with what? Scissors? A knife? – was a design. And not just any design – after a moment of studying it, the image resolved itself into half of a skull. She glanced down, and all of them were the same – variations on a skull.

She put the leaf back down gently, and stood. 

“We’ll have them bring all of this to the station, for better study,” he said, standing.

She nodded, but she was already going through the checklist in her head. Carefully arranged body, outdoors, leaves made into art. She looked up at Sherlock who was frowning down at the body. “Does this fit a pattern?” she asked.

He nodded quickly. “Yes, I’ve seen this before, in old files. Last time, there were ten victims before they just … stopped.” His lips were a thin line, and tension radiated from him. One of his cold cases, she thought.

“Let’s try to stop it at one victim this time, hmm?” she said, pulling off the gloves and starting back toward where Marcus was waiting for them.

He looked up at her and nodded. “Yes. We have the advantage now.”

“We do?” she asked.

“There’s two of us this time,” he replied.

The image of the skull carved into the leaf flashed through her mind again. She envied those who could look at death and find some beauty. But at least she could see a puzzle that could be solved. That was something.


	4. Well-Travelled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is your passport still valid?" Fluff, joanlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP Prompt #4 at Watson's Woes - The Well-Travelled Watson

“Watson, is your passport still valid?” Sherlock asked as he walked into the library.

“Yes, for a few more years I think. Why?” Joan responded absently, not looking up from her book.

“Well—“ he started. “That is, I was wondering—“ he paced the length of the room before turning back to face her.

She closed her book and looked up at him. “Yes?”

“One of my cousins is getting married, and Father is insisting I go. Ordinarily, I would defy him, of course, but I thought perhaps if you were amenable to accompanying me…” He looked at her hopefully.

“Where is the wedding?” she asked, warily. She wasn’t keen on going back to London yet, but she might be persuaded.

“Paris,” he said, quickly.

She tossed the book aside and jumped up. “Paris? Seriously?”

He nodded, the beginnings of a smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

She brushed past him quickly, heading for the stairs and her room. “I’ll start packing!”

He called up after her. “It’s not for a few weeks yet, there’s no rush—“

“I’ll need your suitcase,” she called down. “It’s bigger than mine and I’ll need room for shopping!”

He followed her up the stairs obediently.


	5. Pre-Flight Checklist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan keeps a checklist of things to take on a trip. She and Sherlock depart on their trip to Paris. Fluff, joanlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP Prompt #5 - "Note to Self"
> 
> continues from Chapter 4
> 
> “He gets car sick. Like a six-year-old.”

Joan kept a checklist of things to pack for a trip, customizable to the length of the trip and the nature of the destination. Most of the things on her list were the usual – clothes, phone, phone charger, toiletries, and so on. There were two things unique to the list for travelling with Sherlock by plane – one written, one not. 

The written item on the list was “case file or other project for S, one per leg of trip.” He was a nervous flier, and she had discovered that he could be sufficiently distracted during the majority of a flight if he had something sufficiently engaging to read.

The unwritten item was less concrete. She had also discovered that no amount of reading or conversation could distract him during take-off and landing. He was simply too attuned to the sounds of the plane and the anxiety of those around him to do anything but sit in barely repressed panic as the plane ascended or descended. This cure she had discovered by accident on their first flight together, when she had been so concerned about him that she had just taken his hand without thinking. He had grasped her hand in response, his palm warm against hers, and she had seen him visibly relax. He had let go with an apologetic look, once the captain turned off the seat belt signs.

As they boarded their flight to Paris, she followed their now familiar routine. She sat in the inside seat, and he took the aisle after quickly stowing their luggage overhead. She put the case file for him in the pocket of the seat in front of him, and her own reading material in her own seat pocket. They fastened their seatbelts, and then she took his hand with a smile. The flight attendant glanced at them with an indulgent smile as she passed. Another benefit of the hand-holding she had discovered was that the flight crew was much more benevolent toward Sherlock and his endless questions if they had seen them holding hands previously.

This takeoff was bumpier than usual, thanks to several storms around the airport, and Sherlock remained tense despite his firm grip on her hand. His other hand tapped nervously on his leg. She squeezed his hand and he looked down at her, barely-disguised fear in his eyes. 

“Thank you for inviting me on this trip,” she said, giving his hand another squeeze. 

He nodded, but didn’t answer, so she leaned up to press a light kiss to his cheek. She felt him tense up again, but she could tell it was a different tension, and when she pulled back to meet his gaze, it wasn’t panic in his eyes any more.

“Watson,” he said. “Thank you.”

She smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. She fell asleep before the pilot turned off the seat-belt lights, but when she awoke, he was still holding her hand.


	6. Once More Unto the Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces the prospect of dealing with his family. Continues from Chapter 5 (Sherlock and Joan in Paris).

Joan stepped out onto the terrace of the hotel suite, and looked down over the city. "Sherlock, come out here and see the view," she called back to him.

He walked through the door connecting their suites and joined her on the terrace. "I tried for an Eiffel Tower view, but those were all booked, I'm afraid."

She smiled. "This will do just fine. I can see why they chose this hotel for the reception." The room was luxurious without being ostentatious, and the view of the city was spectacular. After seeing the beautiful lobby, with its elaborate wall hangings and dazzling chandeliers, she could only assume the reception halls were equally stunning.

He shrugged. "It's the hotel du jour for such things." She had to admit it was intriguing to see him like this. She could hold her own in society – her family hadn’t been wealthy, but she wasn’t intimidated by displays of it. Sherlock, however, was as relaxed as only someone who had grown up with such displays could be.

"So, what's on the agenda for the rest of today?" She hoped for time for a nap, but at least she had slept on the plane.

"We have no obligations until the family dinner tonight. I would not want to presume that you would want a nap--" he began.

"A nap would be perfect," she said, quickly. "We'll have time for sightseeing tomorrow, right?"

"Of course."

"Good, then a nap it is," she said.

The bed was as comfortable as it was beautiful, but she managed only an hour's sleep before she was wide awake. She took her book out onto the terrace to read, and Sherlock soon joined her out there. He brought the case file from the plane and they sat in companionable silence, reading, until it was time to dress for dinner.

***

Downstairs, he paused just outside the restaurant, and Joan glanced up at him. "What is it?"

"Nothing, just gathering my resolve." He glanced down at her. "I fear we must 'imitate the action of the tiger,' Watson."

She tilted her head at him. "Shakespeare?" she asked. "Henry the Fifth, right?"

"Full marks, Watson. Indeed, we must 'stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,'" he continued.

"I hardly think a family gathering is equivalent to war with France," she said, her smile betraying her.

"You haven't met enough of my family to be sure," he replied, offering her his arm.

She raised her eyebrows as she thought of Mycroft, but she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Once more unto the breach," she said. "And remember, Henry won that battle."

He smiled at her and opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP Prompt #6: "Imitate the actions of a tiger." --Shakespeare, Henry V
> 
> "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,  
> Or close the wall up with our English dead!  
> In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man  
> As modest stillness and humility,  
> But when the blast of war blows in our ears,  
> Then imitate the action of the tiger:  
> Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood..."
> 
> Henry V, Act III Scene I


	7. Unwanted Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock encounters an old friend at dinner. Continues from previous chapters. fluff, joanlock, fake relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP Prompt #7 - Unwanted Attention

They had no sooner walked into the restaurant than Sherlock was accosted by a tall, blond woman, who grabbed his other arm. Joan quickly released his arm as the woman said, "Sherlock, I've been waiting simply ages for you to arrive!"

Sherlock pulled his arm from the woman's grip. "Melissa, I had no idea you'd be here," he said, without a trace of warmth in his tone.

"But _of course_ I'm here," she replied with a predatory smile. "It is our favorite cousin getting married, after all. Now, I've put you at my table, naturally, so you can tell me everything you've been up to."

Sherlock turned to Joan and put his arm around her shoulders lightly. "Watson, may I present Melissa Wolf - we grew up together. Melissa, this is Joan Watson."

Joan smiled and held out her hand. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Delighted, I'm sure," Melissa said coolly, just barely grasping Joan's hand before releasing her and returning her attention to Sherlock. "Come along - you must be starving after your trip. Let's eat and you can tell me about New York, and I can tell you all of the stories of Sherlock's childhood."

During dinner Joan managed to deduce that Melissa had grown up with Sherlock, as he said, although she was about 10 years younger than he was. Her stories of Sherlock's childhood turned out to be mostly stories of her own attempts to get his attention, to varying degrees of success. She punctuated each story with a firm squeeze of Sherlock’s arm, and he flinched every time.

"But, why didn't you come back to London?" Melissa asked. "I thought after you finished … treatment--" this last was said in a breathless undertone suggesting suppressed scandal - "that you'd return."

Sherlock shook his head. "My work --our work -- is in New York," he said, glancing at Joan. "There's nothing for me in London."

Melissa pouted prettily. " _I'm_ in London, silly."

Joan reached for Sherlock's hand where it rested on the table and squeezed it. "Work keeps us very busy," she said, looking up at him through her lashes with a smile. Sherlock looked at her sharply, but didn't pull away.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "As I said, everything I need is in New York."

"I see," Melissa said, coldly. "Well, we'll have plenty of time to catch up this weekend," she said, with false brightness, before turning her attention to the person sitting on her other side. She glanced back at Joan once, her eyes narrowed, but Joan just smiled back at her.

Sherlock leaned down to whisper, "Watson, I assure you there's no need to pretend to a different relationship than we have."

She smiled and said, equally softly, "You whispering in my ear is not going to convince people we aren't a couple."

He raised his eyebrows at her, but didn't respond. When they left to return upstairs, he took her hand, and didn't let go.


	8. Open Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some prisons are of our own making, or so we think. Standalone -Set just after episode 3x15 - "When Your Number's Up"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP Prompt #8: 
> 
> I never saw a man who looked  
> With such a wistful eye  
> Upon that little tent of blue  
> Which prisoners call the sky,  
> And at every drifting cloud that went  
> With sails of silver by.
> 
> Ballad of Reading Gaol - Oscar Wilde

Joan sat on the sofa in her basement office, her laptop open on her lap, and various files piled next to her. The room was chilly and dim, but the cold just made it easier for her to concentrate. 

She heard the door open and Sherlock's steps as he descended toward her. She braced herself for an interruption, and wondered if she would regret her concession to un-bar the door that led directly upstairs.

He didn't interrupt, and instead just handed her a mug of tea and sat down next to her on the sofa, careful not to disturb her files. 

"Thanks," she said, grateful for the tea. Another mug, nearly empty and long cold, sat on the floor next to her feet.

"You've been down here all day," he said. She listened for a reproach in his tone, but she didn’t hear it.

"Just working," she replied. 

"If you fancy a break, we could take a walk to get some dinner. It's a bit warmer outside than it has been." 

She looked over at him, to see him watching her. The thought of going out to a restaurant, letting someone she didn’t know cook for her, was too much. "I think I'll just make a salad or something, thanks." 

"Hm," he said. He was silent for a moment. She looked back at her laptop, to avoid looking at him. He picked up one of her files. "What are you working on?"

She pushed her hair behind her ear. "That string of jewelry store robberies that Marcus mentioned before. I was looking for a pattern, but so far, nothing."

"Ah. Well, I'm sure you'll crack it, I have every faith in you," he said as he stood to go back upstairs. "I'll go fix us something to eat. Come up whenever you're ready, no rush."

She nodded, and watched him go back upstairs. He didn't close the door behind him, and she suppressed a flicker of irritation at that. Light spilled in through the open door. She considered following him upstairs, but instead re-focused on her laptop. She just needed to focus on the work. If she did that, she'd be fine.


	9. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wound was surely mortal.  
> (WARNING: implied character death)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #9 - Healer's choice - The one person Watson chose not to save.

The wound was surely mortal - Moriarty brought down by one of her own henchmen, blood spilling over the concrete. Joan stood over her, but made no move to help her.

"Help me," Moriarty said, reaching for her.

Joan shook her head. "Did he beg, in the end? When you stood like this, over Sherlock, did he beg?"

"Not for himself," she replied, after a pause.

Joan's heart raced - adrenaline, she thought. Not fear. "How can I help you live, when he is dead?"

"Joan, you're a doctor," she pleaded.

"No, I'm a detective." She stood, motionless, and witnessed.


	10. What's All This, Then?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't care who you are, no one is going in there until the crime scene people get here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP Prompt #10 - "What’s All This Then?" Use the POV of one or more of the police for today's entry.

"Look, I don't care who you are, you can't go in there," Amanda Brendan said, without even attempting to hide the boredom in her tone.

"I assure you, Officer, we are consultants with the NYPD, and are authorized to access the crime scene," the man said. He had said his name was Sherlock Holmes, but that was clearly a fake name.

"Like I said, I don't care who you are, no one is going in there until the crime scene people get here." She had been about to go off-shift when they got the call for the robbery here, and she wasn't looking forward to being stuck here waiting for CSU and whatever detective they sent. She was hungry and her feet hurt, and she certainly didn't want to deal with a couple of looky-loos who thought they could solve crimes.

The woman with him - Joan something - said. "Please call Detective Marcus Bell at the 14th. He'll vouch for us."

"Hmph," the man said. "We shouldn't need someone to vouch for our credentials, Watson."

"I'm just trying to speed things along."

Amanda sighed, but pulled out her phone and walked a few steps away to call. As she heard "Bell here," on the other end of the line, she turned to see the two "consultants" ducking under the crime scene tape. Dammit.

"Detective Bell? Officer Brendan here. Look, I've got two people at my crime scene claiming to be your consultants--"

She could hear him sigh. "Holmes. And Watson, I assume?"

That was his real name? Unbelievable. "Yes. They're interfering with a crime scene."

"Don't worry, they won't disturb anything important, they know better than that. Where are they now?"

"Inside the room. I think--good lord, he's smelling the rug." He was, indeed, down on his hands and knees, and appeared to be sniffing the carpet. Watson stood over him, saying something that Amanda couldn't hear.

"Yeah, their methods can be…unusual. But they do get results. Just try to stay out of their way and let them work."

Amanda sighed. "Fine. I'm putting this in my report though."

"Of course," Marcus replied, and disconnected. 

She sighed and walked over to watch them. Sherlock was still on the floor examining the rug, but Watson was studying the pieces of glass that were all that were left of the tops of the jewelry cases.

"Sherlock, come look at this," she said, and he moved quickly to her side to see what she was looking at. 

"Hmm, yes, I see - it looks like the locks were already open before they were damaged," he said. "Well-spotted, as always, Watson." He ducked behind the display case, so he didn't see Watson's little smile in response, but Amanda did.

"Officer," Sherlock called to her. "Could we get your assistance with something? I just need to see underneath this case, and together we might be able to lift it --"

She sighed and walked over to join the two consultants. It might turn into an interesting afternoon after all.


	11. Better Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not pretending. Are you?" Joan and Sherlock in Paris.  
> Fluff, romance, joanlock (continues from chapter 7)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #11 - "Coat Porn" - outerwear as inspiration

Joan studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror thoughtfully. She was glad she had brought this coat – her favorite black one that nipped in at the waist and flared out over her hips. It wasn’t really warm enough for most days in New York, but today in Paris looked sunny enough to make it practical as well as pretty. They were planning a walk along the Seine, with stops in the botanical gardens and the bookshops and the cathedral, so she had chosen comfortable shoes. Still heels of course –this was Paris, after all – but comfortable enough to walk around in all day.

“Watson, are you ready?” Sherlock’s called to her from the sitting room. She emerged from the bedroom to find him standing and fidgeting with his cuffs, waiting for her. He was wearing his usual pea-coat, which she found oddly comforting. 

“Yep, ready.”

The gardens were everything the tour guides had promised, and they spent a long time just wandering through, occasionally stopping to examine a particular plant more closely, or for a short botany lesson from Sherlock. The sun was warm, so she unbuttoned her coat, and so did he. She found herself watching his face as he talked. She thought of the night before, how easy it had been to just reach for his hand at dinner. As they walked back out onto the street, she took his hand.

“Watson, as I said, you don’t have to pretend –“

She shook her head and squeezed his hand. “I’m not pretending. Are you?”

He stopped walking and looked down at her, releasing her hand. 

She turned to face him fully, taking a deep breath. “You told me once that you were better with me,” Joan said quietly.

Sherlock nodded. “I am better with you.”

She shook her head. “Maybe. But I think it goes both ways. I think we’re better together.”

“Together,” he repeated.

She closed the distance between them, noticing that his breathing sped up as she stopped in front of him. “Yes, together. I love what we are…together.”

“So, Watson, what do you want?” he asked softly.

She took a deep breath. “This. Us.” She hesitated. “You.”

“What do you want?” he repeated, as she took his hand gently.

“I want to be able to touch you. I want you to touch me. I want to see if what we have – this connection – is strong enough for that.”

He reached up to brush her hair back from her cheek. “So what do you want, right now?”

She swallowed hard. “I want you to kiss me,” she whispered.

“My dear Watson, I thought you’d never ask,” he said. He drew her closer, and her breath caught in anticipation as he bent his head toward her. He rested his hand on her cheek as his lips touched hers, and she managed to grasp the rough lapels of his coat in an attempt to ground herself. His lips were soft and undemanding until she gasped and opened against him, and he deftly swept his tongue along her lower lip, delicately tasting her. She felt an electric shiver pass through her whole body as she moved closer to him, and he made a sound that was not quite a moan in the back of his throat as his arms dipped under her coat and around her, so he could hold her closer to him. She slid her arms up and around his neck, giving in to the urge to thread her fingers through his hair. When she broke the kiss, finally, to look up at him with a smile, she was delighted to see he looked as dazed as she felt. Both of them were breathing hard.

“Um, we should go back to the hotel,” she whispered.

He nodded, speechless.

“The wedding, remember?” she said gently, smiling at him and resting her hand against his cheek. He turned his face into her palm to place a small kiss there.

“Right, the wedding,” he agreed.

She stepped back, smoothing her coat down and glancing quickly at the other people nearby. None of them seemed to be paying them the least amount of attention, so she quickly leaned up on tiptoes to press another kiss to his lips.

They were not quite late to the wedding.


	12. Clyde the Tortoise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An excerpt from the Casebook of Holmes and Watson, by Joan Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Assumes that the copy of the Casebook that Kitty found was not in fact the only one, and that Joan resumed writing it at some point.
> 
> Written for JWP #12: Doyle vs. Dogs: Toby notwithstanding, dogs got a raw deal in Sherlock Holmes Canon – shot, poisoned, thrown out windows, stung by jellyfish. Feature a dog in your entry in some way (preferably without dying) from any incarnation of Sherlock Holmes – Redbeard, Gladstone, the Dog that Did Nothing, or even an honorary “dog” like Clyde the tortoise.

(Excerpted from the electronic version posted by “Everyone” May 31, 2018. This passage does not appear in the final print version.)

A small pet tortoise named Clyde is perhaps the last creature you would suspect of being an assistant to a detective of any sort. There are many stories of dogs being used to solve crime, discover the perpetrator, or to sniff out contraband. But Clyde offered assistance in his own way.

We acquired him as a pet as a result of a case, although he played no other role in it. His value as a confidante, and as a prop for re-enacting various crimes, soon became clear. He was also useful as a messenger from Sherlock to me, as he was quite amenable to carrying notes strapped to his shell. 

His best role, however, was as a distraction for Sherlock when there was a lull in the availability of interesting cases, or when he was at an impasse in a difficult case. Sherlock painstakingly determined and catalogued which music Clyde favored, for example. He also constructed a device that would let Clyde create paintings as he walked around exploring. Sometimes he would combine the two activities, by playing music for the painting sessions. (Despite all attempts, he never did learn to like Taylor Swift's music.) 

(Historian’s note: Several paintings attributed to “Clyde the Tortoise” and purportedly submitted by an S. Holmes and J. Watson are on display at the Testudine Art Gallery in Brooklyn. Prints are available for sale on their website. Other records indicate that a special enclosure for him was built at The Holmes-Watson estate on Long Island where they retired in 2040.)


	13. Dear Diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan Watson, Age 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #13: "A Tale Foretold" - Watson comes across the first thing [s]he wrote as a youth. It turns out to be prophetic.

Joan opened the box of books her mother had brought - "Just a few things I found when we cleaned out the attic," her mother had said. They were mostly old paperbacks from college - the odd Shakespeare, a worn copy of Jane Eyre. But at the bottom of the box she found a small, red, leather-bound diary, that she remembered getting as a gift as a child. She put the box aside and opened the diary, smiling as she recalled how excited she had been to receive it. 

The first page was inscribed "Joan Watson, Age 8" in her neat but childish handwriting. And page one read: "Today is my eighth birthday, and Mom says that means I'm old enough to keep a diary. Oren says I'm supposed to put secrets in it, but Dad says I can write anything I want. I don't think I'll put secrets here - I don't want anyone to read them. I'd rather write about school and the books I'm reading. I'm old enough to get my own library card now, and the library is full of books I want to read."

She looked up as Sherlock walked in to the room. "Ah, Watson, I thought I heard your mother."

"She just dropped off some books for me," she said, quickly tucking the diary back into the box.

"Oh? Anything good?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Just some stuff when I was a kid. I'll just put it in the attic for now."

"Very well. Marcus called with a lead, if you're up for a trip?"

"Sure, just give me a minute."

She tucked the box behind her boxes of medical journals in the attic. Someday she would sort through them. Not today. She closed the door firmly behind her.


	14. Not Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stop sending me cat pictures!"  
> Joanlock, standalone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #14: Not So Cute. It's easy to be shmoopy when there are adorable baby animals involved. Try to create something shmoopy with a less-than-adorable and/or not-quite-a-baby animal.

"Watson!" Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs announced his approach.

"Hmm?"

He burst into her room, holding his laptop. "Stop sending me cat pictures."

She laughed. "I thought you’d find them amusing. Besides, they're cute!"

"They are not cute, and we are not getting a cat. I do not keep cats."

"Fine, fine," she said, as he turned to leave.

She quickly sent another email, with a picture of Grumpy Cat attached. "He reminds me of you," she typed, and pressed send. She closed her laptop and waited.

"Watson!" He clattered up the stairs again and burst through the door, wearing the same expression as Grumpy Cat. 

She couldn't help laughing again. "See, he reminds me of you," she said, as he walked over and sat next to her on the bed, setting his laptop aside. She sat up and reached for him, resting one hand on the side of his face, her thumb stroking his stubble. He leaned into her touch. "Except for one thing."

He looked down at her, reaching to draw her closer. "And what is that?"

"I don't think Grumpy Cat would smile if I kissed him," she replied, as she did just that.

"I should think not," he said, with that smile he reserved only for her, before bending to kiss her again.


	15. Like Father, Like Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you intend to reproduce?" Post-Ep for The View From Olympus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #15: That Old Saying. The old Egyptian saying "ابن الوزّ عوّام. (ibn il-wazz 3awwam.) ("The son of a goose is a swimmer.") is roughly the same sentiment as the English "Like father, like son." Whether it's one of these statements or another adage, include some classic saying in today's entry.

“Do you intend to reproduce?” Sherlock asked.

“You already asked me that,” Joan replied, taking another spoonful of ice cream. 

“As I recall, you didn’t answer.”

“As I recall, you didn’t really let me,” she said.

“Fair enough.”

She took one last spoonful of ice cream, then let the spoon clatter into the now-empty bowl. “Like I said, I’ve thought about it. The biological clock thing, it’s real. But…” she shrugged. 

“If you’re worried about your father’s illness—“ he began.

She shook her head. “I know the odds of the schizophrenia being inherited. For a grandchild, it’s five times the odds for the general population, but that makes it only about 5% chance, depending on the study.”

He nodded. “The odds were much higher for you and your brother.”

“Intellectually, I know the odds are manageable for my child. But emotionally – I know what the effect on a family can be.”

“Of course,” he said. “But that’s not why you didn’t have a child.”

“No. The timing was never right – med school, the residency, then practicing. And then after—there wasn’t anyone I wanted to create a family with.”

Sherlock stirred the spoon around his empty bowl. “I told Agatha that I could not in good conscience pass on my…”gifts” to a child. But it’s more than that. I wouldn’t wish my childhood on anyone.”

She rested her hand on his arm lightly. “You aren’t your father.”

“The son of a goose is a swimmer,” he said.

“What?”

“An Egyptian saying,” he replied. “Like father, like son.”

“You are not your father,” she repeated. She held his gaze when he looked up at her. “I’m not saying it would be easy. But you do have gifts, and you can be remarkably generous with them. We are all more than our genetics.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But you would tell me, if you wanted to have a child?”

She smiled. “Knowing you, you'll deduce it before I do,” she said, standing to take the dishes back to the kitchen.


	16. Ablaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A release of endorphins does wonders for solving a cold case.  
> Joan and Sherlock in Paris - continues from chapter 11 (joanlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #16 - "Ablaze" - picture prompt of living room on fire

Joan woke up to the sight of Sherlock in her bed, the case file from the plane spread out around him. She stretched and slid over closer to him, enjoying the ache in her muscles. He put his arm around her, letting her rest her head on his chest. They had made it through the wedding and part of the reception, before retreating to her room.

"Alright?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm, you?" 

"Never better," he replied, running his hand up and down her arm gently. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

She shook her head against him. "No, not at all. What are you doing? I thought you'd get some sleep."

"I am taking advantage of the rush of endorphins to work on this case."

She smiled. "Any breakthroughs? You keep going back to that picture of the house after the fire."

He turned the picture so she could see it. "Indeed. Something about it and the report of the arson investigator hasn't seemed quite right."

"How do you mean?"

He pointed at one corner of the photo. "The investigator said that the fire started here, in this corner, at the electrical outlet. The damage matches that theory. He said the fire was accidental. But if you look here--" he pointed at the other corner of the room in the photo. "The pattern of damage here suggests that the fire started here."

"So the fire started in two places, all by itself?"

"Doesn't seem likely, but it could be a massive electrical fault of some kind. I can't determine that from the photo, but a computer model might tell us more."

She stroked her hand over his chest, carding her fingers through his chest hair. "Mm-hmm." She slid her leg up along his.

He looked down at her with a smile. "Are you trying to distract me?"

"Just thinking maybe another release of endorphins might help," she said, moving her hand lower. He put the case file aside and rolled her underneath him.

"When you put it that way," he said, bending to kiss her, before moving his lips down her jaw, nipping and nuzzling against her.

"Are you saying we'll have to have sex every time we need a breakthrough in a case?" She gasped as he found the sensitive spot behind her ear.

He pulled back to look at her. "Are you objecting?"

She reached up to pull him back down to her. "Not at all."


	17. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I hope I get a really good scar from this."  
> Standalone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #17: But Aside From That, Dr. Watson, How Did You Like the Trip to Switzerland?: Watson has been accused of having a “pawky sense of humour” by his flatmate. Incorporate humour into your entry in some way – even grim or black humour (characteristic of both medical people and police)

“I hope I get a really interesting scar from this at least,” Joan said, wincing as Ms. Hudson replaced the dressing over her the long set of staples in her side.

Ms. Hudson tutted at her. “Hold still, dear, so I can get this done properly.”

Joan complied. She wished she could do the dressing herself, but it was just too awkward. “I suppose my bikini-wearing days are over though.”

“Oh, I don’t know, a little makeup on it and it might be fine.” Ms. Hudson replied, finishing taping up the dressing and helping Joan rearrange her shirt over them.

“Do not encourage her making light of this injury,” Sherlock said from the doorway. His lips were a thin line, and he was frowning at them both.

“The knife missed everything important. I didn’t need my appendix anyway,” Joan said.

“I’ll just go make you some soup, okay? Stay right here, I’ll be right back.” Ms. Hudson brushed past Sherlock as she left, and he stepped into the room.

“Watson, you do not need to prove the adage that doctors make the worst patients. Nor do you need to pretend the injury is less serious than it is.” He sat down on the bed next to her. “Not with me.”

She reached for his hand. “I’m fine. Or I will be. And I might have a great scar. Not a bad deal, considering.”

He blanched. “Watson, you stepped between me and an attacker, and nearly died. Please—“ His gaze was intense on hers, and she could see the fear in his eyes.

“And I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“I know. You must realize that doesn’t make it easier,” he said softly.

She squeezed his hand, relenting when she saw the tension around his mouth and eyes. “Of course, I’m sorry. I won’t joke about this yet.”

“Not ever. Not about this,” he said firmly. “I can’t,” he added more quietly.

“Fair enough. In exchange, you must fuss over me and bring me tea.”

He jumped up. “Tea, of course. What else?”

“Let’s start with the tea and I’ll think of what else will help. Alright?”

“Yes, of course,” he nodded. He leaned over to help her get more comfortable against the pillows, and she let out a little sigh as she leaned back. He looked at her sharply. “Alright?”

She nodded. “I will be.”


	18. Beginner's Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to distract Joan during her recovery. Continues from Chapter 17.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #18 - The Games We Play  
> (Involve a game of some sort in your story, whether it's a round of whist, an intense night of Cluedo, or a Pac-Man tournament.)

“You’re letting me win. That’s the third game in a row.”

“I am not, you are the superior Scrabble player. Would you like a rematch?”

“I’m sure I am not. I promise I can handle if you win one. I’m not that delicate.”

“I am only trying to distract you during your convalescence.”

“Watching you play at less than full strength is not the good kind of distraction.”

“Would you rather play something else? Chess? Or backgammon?”

“I’ve never played backgammon.”

“I could teach you, if you like?”

“Please, but don’t just let me win.”

“Don’t underestimate beginner’s luck.”


	19. While You Were Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock at Joan's bedside in the hospital. Prequel to Chapters 17 & 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #19: While You Were Sleeping. Watson is presumed unconscious/asleep/comatose, but [s]he can hear everything everyone says at [her] bedside.

The first voice she hears is Sherlock’s, as she swims up from the anesthetic haze. That helps her not panic when she can’t open her eyes or make a sound, so she focuses on breathing and listening, while she waits for her body to obey her commands again.

“I’m not leaving,” Sherlock is saying from somewhere in the room.

“You should get some rest while she’s sleeping – you won’t do her any good if you don’t.” Captain Gregson says.

“No, I won’t leave her here alone.” 

“One of us can stay with here, we won’t leave her.” Marcus this time.

 _“Stay with me, Joan, just please stay with me,”_ Sherlock says, but no, that was earlier, just after the burning pain of the knife slicing into her. _“Please, just hold on.”_ And she had tried, tried not to succumb to the warm darkness, but she didn’t remember the paramedics arriving, nor the trip to the hospital, although she had a faint impression of someone holding her hand.

“No, it has to be me,” Sherlock is saying now. “It’s my fault—“ he pauses. I’ll call you when she wakes up.”

“Alright, but call if you need us, okay?” Gregson says, and she hears two sets of footsteps leaving, and one set approaching her bed.

“Joan, it’s okay, I’m here,” Sherlock says, and she can feel him take her hand, but she can’t move it herself yet. “I won’t leave you, I promise.”

She listens to him settle himself in the chair, the screech as he drags it closer to her bed. Now she can hear the beeps of the machines attached to her as well. 

“I’m so sorry, Joan. Please wake up. I could never forgive myself—“ he breaks off as his voice cracks, but his grip on her hand remains firm. “I can’t do without you, you know,” he adds in a whisper.

“How long was I out?” her voice is rough, and her mouth is dry, but she manages this much as her eyes finally obey her and open. She blinks at the light, but there he is, is face just above hers.

“Watson—“ he says, his voice breaking again. He clears his throat. “A few hours, since the surgery,” he says.

She tries to nod, but her head barely moves. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, now,” he says softly. “Try to rest. I’ll be right here.”


	20. Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a fondness for American traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #20: Yankee Doodle Came to London: Doyle seemed to have a fascination for people and things American... Put something or someone American in your entry, or do an American-based pastiche.

"Rise and shine, Watson!" Sherlock said brightly, carrying the breakfast tray and a laptop in to Joan's bedroom. "Hurry, or you'll miss it!"

"Mmmph," she said indistinctly into her pillow. She felt the bed dip under his weight, and she pulled the covers over her head.

"Come now, you know you want to watch. It's tradition!"

She flung the covers off and glared at him. "What's tradition?"

He set the tray over her legs as she sat up in bed. "It's Groundhog Day!"

"Hmmph," she said again, but she surveyed the breakfast tray approvingly. Eggs and coffee, and pancakes, a rare treat.

"Punxsutawney Phil is about to tell us whether we will have to suffer six more weeks of winter. Here we go," he said, propping up the laptop so they could watch.

"I can't believe you're buying into the hype."

He nodded. "It is by far my favorite American custom. I find it quite charming that so many people place their faith in a oversized ground-squirrel to predict the weather."

"He's probably right more often than the actual weather forecasters."

He huffed out a laugh. "Eat up. After this, we must watch Bill Murray relive the same day over and over."

"Well, if it's tradition," she said. She could support any tradition that involved a movie and breakfast in bed.


	21. Heat Rash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does not react well to the heat. (Warning for mentions of withdrawal symptoms.)  
> standalone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heat Rash. It's a muggy, hot summer and someone's reacting badly. Metaphorical bonus points for including salve/lotion/ointment and needing help applying it.

Joan lingered in front of the open refrigerator, enjoying the cold air on her skin as she pulled out a bottle of water. She was wearing only a tank top and shorts, but the heat and humidity was still oppressive. She turned, guiltily, as she heard Sherlock entering the kitchen.

"Do you have any ointment?" he asked. She could see he was flushed and sweating, but he was still wearing his usual button-down, although he had opened the top buttons.

"Sure, what for?" She closed the refrigerator and stepped toward him, concerned.

"I think the mosquitoes made a bit of a meal of me. I… _itch_ …all over."

"Yeah, they got me pretty well at the park yesterday, too."

"But it feels like--it reminds me of--" he shivered and rubbed at his arms.

"Withdrawal." She hurried over to him, and as she drew closer she could see a long scratch on his neck. "Let me see," she said as she gently moved the collar away from his skin. She could see a raised rash on the exposed skin, punctuated by a few mosquito bites. "Ah, looks like heat rash, too, not surprising in this weather." She stepped back. "Okay, go strip down and rinse off in the shower - cool water, not cold - and I'll go get my medical bag and something for you to wear. Wait for me in there."

"Watson, there's no need--"

"You've been scratching, so I need to check for infections. Alright?"

His shoulders dropped in resignation. "Very well," he said, before heading up the stairs. 

Joan rummaged through his clean laundry, finally finding a loose, soft t-shirt and shorts for him to wear, and then pulled her medical bag out of her closet. By the time she paused outside the bathroom door the water had stopped, so she knocked firmly.

"Come in, I'm decent."

She chuckled as she opened the door to find him standing and waiting for her, a towel slung around his hips, and his hair still dripping. She could see the rash over his chest and arms, and mosquito bites on his arms and legs. There were long welts on his arms where he had been unable to resist the urge to scratch. "Alright, sit and let me have a look at those scratches, okay?" 

He obeyed, sitting on the closed toilet lid, although he couldn't quite stop from jittering his knee up and down. She quickly surveyed the damage. The scratches looked bad, but they didn't look infected yet, thankfully. He obediently let her move him around so she could see, his skin still damp under her fingers. She gently disinfected the scratches, then took out the ointment for the itching. She handed him the tube. "Okay, you do the parts you can reach, and I'll do your back."

He complied, then turned so she could apply the cream to his back. She felt the tension in his shoulders gradually ease as she worked the ointment into his skin gently, not wanting to trigger more itching. His skin was warm and pliant under hers, and she tried not to linger too much. She resisted tracing the patterns of ink in his skin. The room was warm and humid, and she could feel the heat still radiating from him, raising her own temperature. Sweat dripped down her own back uncomfortably. Finally she stepped back and cleared her throat, and he turned to face her. 

"Better?" she asked.

He nodded. "Thank you, Watson."

"Okay, that should help for a little while. We'll put some more on later. Why don't you get dressed and come downstairs to the office- it's cooler in the basement and I have a fan on."

He nodded again, and took the clothes she offered, his fingers brushing hers fleetingly. "Shorts?"

"Doctor's orders," she said with a smile. "You need to let your skin breathe a little. I'll meet you downstairs with ice cream."

"Also doctor's orders?" he asked.

"Yes. And tomorrow, we go shopping for an air conditioner," she said as she turned to leave.

"You're very strict," he called after her. 

"Only for my favorite patients."


	22. While You Were Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passive-aggressive neighbor notes. (100 words). Set after The One Percent Solution (ep 2x16)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #22 - While You Were Out - Watson returns home after a long day to find a note pinned to [her] door. Whit is the note? Who left it? It's all up to you.

Joan juggled the grocery bags and her keys as she climbed the steps to the front door. She stopped when she saw the note taped to it - orange paper with bold black handwriting. She pulled it down and took it inside to read it.

"Perhaps you are unaware that we can hear the loud music and other noises coming from your home at all hours. Please be more considerate of those of us who actually sleep during the night.   
\--Your Neighbors

P.S. The roosters have to go."

"Sherlock! I told you the neighbors would notice Romulus and Remus."


	23. Improvised Tools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures in home improvement: Sherlock and Joan and the new air conditioner. Joanlock. Continues from Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #23 - Improvised tools
> 
> (And this can be partly blamed on amindamazed.)

"We're putting it in my room," Joan said firmly as they left the home improvement store after finally deciding on a window air conditioner for the brownstone.

"The media room makes more sense in terms of the work," Sherlock replied. "The electrical system won't support two units, so we should put it where we'll use it the most."

"Sleep is important for work. My room makes more sense. We can move a table in temporarily if we need to work there."

"Hm," he said. "Very well, I acknowledge that your sleep is important to you. I shall make do with a fan, don't worry about me."

She rolled her eyes. "Let's see if we can even get it installed, okay?"

Several hours of sweaty work later, after the unit was delivered, they finally had the window air conditioner installed in Joan's room. They improvised a shelf to hold it, since the window sill didn't seem quite sturdy enough, and settled for some makeshift insulation, but it was working.

"Tomorrow we'll figure out something about the extension cord," he said. "And get some proper insulation for the sides."

She nodded . "I call first shower."

"I'll order dinner."

She returned from her shower to find he had set up a small table and chairs in her room, and had brought up the takeout and some case files.

"Mmm, thanks," she said, as she opened the takeout boxes. "I'm starving."

They ate in comfortable silence, each of them idly flipping through case files. She caught him scratching his neck absently as he read.

"How's the itching? Do you need more--" she started.

He shook his head. "I appear to be quite recovered, thanks to you."

" I should still take a look at those scratches after you shower. Cool water again, not cold."

He returned from his shower later, barefoot and wearing only his pajama pants, but carrying a t-shirt. 

"Here, sit and let me have a look," she said, as she inspected the scratches. The were still slightly inflamed, but there was no sign of infection. She gently reapplied the ointment to the remaining signs of the rash on his back and shoulders. He relaxed under her touch again, and gave a low hum of relief.

"Better?" she asked, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders. 

He nodded and leaned back against her. "Thank you."

She felt goosebumps on her arms that were partly due to the cool air blowing on her, but partly due to the feel of him against her. She patted his shoulders and stepped back. "You should probably sleep in here."

He turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise, but she saw his gaze move from her eyes down to her lips and then back, almost too quickly for her to notice. "For purely practical reasons?" he asked.

"I think my reasons may be less than pure," she said with a smile as he took his hand and pulled him toward the bed.


	24. Climb the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ms. Hudson tries to help with Joan's recovery. Part of the same story as chapters 17, 18, and 19.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #24:
> 
> A Long-Suffering Woman: Involve Mrs. Hudson in Watson’s whump in some fashion.

Ms. Hudson found Joan sitting halfway up the stairs to the roof, holding her side and breathing hard.

“Joan, what on earth—“

Joan shrugged, wincing in pain as she did. “I just wanted to go up to the roof. I thought I could make it, but…”

“You’re lucky if you didn’t pull out your stitches,” Ms. Hudson said as she sat down next to Joan on the step. “Are you okay?”

“I just can’t stand to be indoors for one more minute.”

Ms. Hudson nodded. “Of course, but you should have asked for help! Mine, or Sherlock’s. We would have helped you upstairs.”

“I thought I could do it,” Joan replied.

“Mmmhmm, you always do, don’t you?” she said softly. “Βοήθα με να σε βοηθώ ν' ανεβούμε το βουνό.”

“What’s that?” Joan asked.

“A Greek proverb: ‘Help me, so that I can help you, so that we can climb the mountain.’”

Joan sighed. “Point taken. Okay, let me rest for a minute and then will you help me up there?”

“Of course, just let me know when you’re ready. No rush.”

Joan let out her breath in relief. “Thank you. Where’s Sherlock? I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“He’s downstairs, stress-baking Yorkshire puddings I think.”

“Oh dear.”

“Ms. Hudson?!” Sherlock’s voice preceded his appearance on the stairs. “Oh, there you are—“ He stopped when he saw Joan sitting on the stairs. “What’s wrong? Did you fall?” He hurried up to crouch down in front of Joan, peering intently at her face. 

“She’s fine,” Ms. Hudson said. “We were trying to go up to the roof, but we needed to stop for a breath.” She gently touched Joan’s arm, studying her face. “Ready to keep going?”

Joan nodded, and let them both help her up carefully. Sherlock hovered, uncertain.

“We’re fine, Sherlock. We can handle this.” Ms. Hudson said.

“You won’t let her overdo it?” he replied, glancing worriedly at Joan.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Joan snapped.

He shook his head in annoyance at himself. “Apologies, of course. You’ll take it easy, won’t you?” he said, to Joan, his forehead still furrowed with worry.

She sighed. “I’m fine. Why don’t you go fix us all some tea, and meet us up there.”

He nodded. “Of course, yes. Won’t be a moment,” he said as he turned to hurry back down to the kitchen.

Ms. Hudson put her arm around Joan as support, and helped her start up the stairs. “There, see? You don’t have to do it on your own.”

Joan didn’t answer, but just kept climbing.


	25. Fanworks Through the Ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The legendary Watson and Holmes will always have their fans. (retirement fic, in same universe as [Chapter 12](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4248204/chapters/9811458), in which they published the Casebook )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #25: [Picture Prompt: Fanworks Through the Ages. (Picture of a poem published in the Milwaukee Ledger, 1895):](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1404237.html)

**A Visit to the Holmes-Watson Estate, Part One**  
(Blog post by Euglassia_Watsonia_One, Uploaded July 25, 2045)

I promised you yesterday that I would start posting the account of my visit, so here we go! I’ll add photos and video later but I wanted to get this part down first.

I managed to get an invitation to visit the legendary Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes at their retirement estate on Long Island. They asked me not to reveal the actual location for their safety and privacy, and I have disguised certain details to comply with that request. In deference to their request that I approach on foot, I left my car on the main street and walked the last mile or so. (Mr. Holmes believes – probably correctly – that the electrical fields from modern cars disturb his bees.)

Ms. Watson herself greeted me at the door – she is shorter than I pictured her, but even more charming. Age has not diminished her quick wit and obvious intelligence, either. She collected my coat and suggested we chat in the sitting room. That room overlooks the garden where I could see the apiary as well as the enclosure they built for Clyde, their famous tortoise. (He was indoors on his terrarium table since it was quite cold outdoors.) She fixed us some tea and then let me start recording.

[Video interview – transcript below]

INTERVIEWER: Are you and Mr. Holmes enjoying your retirement? 

WATSON: We are – it’s a beautiful estate, and the quiet is a nice change. Sherlock keeps busy with the bees and various monographs, and I’m still doing some writing. And we aren’t too far from the city if it gets too quiet, of course. [laughs]

INTERVIEWER: How do you feel about people using your Casebook to train detectives? Is that what you intended?

WATSON: Indeed, that was one of the purposes for the book, to demystify the deductive process and show that it can be taught. My only concern is if someone is charging a huge fee for the privilege of teaching - then it is disturbing. But what matters is the work, and helping people. That’s what we hoped for in writing the book.

INTERVIEWER: Are you surprised at how popular the book has been?

WATSON: Very much so – the most surprising use for it that I’ve heard of is that it’s used by screenwriters in Hollywood, as a resource for their various procedurals. 

INTERVIEWER: Any plans for a second book, or an update?

WATSON: Not at this time, but never say never. 

INTERVIEWER: And how are the bees? Have they adapted to the move?

WATSON: I think they love it out here. I’ll let Sherlock tell you about it though – he wants to give you a tour. Fair warning – once he starts talking about the bees, there’s not stopping him. He’ll talk your ear off all day, about bees and cases and everything in between.

INTERVIEWER: That’s what I’m hoping for! I did read his monograph on the bees, as you suggested.

WATSON: He’ll be delighted to hear that, I’m sure.

At that point she left to go get Mr. Holmes, and I walked over to watch Clyde amble around his terrarium. I resisted the urge to snoop on the bookshelves, but it was difficult!

They finally reappeared in the doorway. He was taller than I expected, and looked older, but he studied me with those eyes that see everything. Ms. Watson introduced me, and he shook my hand. 

“Watson tells me that you’ve read my monograph. Excellent, excellent, I won’t have to start from the beginning,” he said.

I’m aware of the ongoing debate about whether they are officially married or not – I know Everyone posted the purported marriage certificate, but it remains unverified as all of their public records have been sealed. I can tell you this – they both wear rings, and there is a relaxed sort of intimacy about them when they are together. He often deferred to her when answering questions about cases she was involved in, but did interject details or corrections if she seemed to be under-selling her role. I caught each of them gazing fondly at the other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. They made me feel very welcome, and I’m very grateful they opened their home to me.

But, I get ahead of myself. Tomorrow I’ll relate the details of the apiary tour, and then later this week, the video of them describing the Moriarty affair. I’ll have more pictures ready by then, too. Until then—


	26. Holding the Universe Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and Sherlock head home from Paris.  
> Continues from Chapter 16  
> fluff, joanlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #26: The One You Were Expecting: Everyone expects certain kinds of prompts in JWP. Today's prompt is exactly that: the one you personally had expected to see by now, but haven't.
> 
> I expected a quote prompt, so I used this one:  
> “She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the railing, holding the universe together.”  
> — J.D. Salinger

Joan leaned on the balcony railing, enjoying a last look at the city below. She could hear Sherlock moving around the room, checking that they hadn’t left anything behind before they left for the airport. She smiled to herself when she heard his footsteps behind her, and leaned back against him as he encircled her waist with his arms.

“We could stay longer, if you like,” he murmured, before pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Mmm, we should get back. We should definitely come back again though.”

“Definitely,” he agreed. He rested his cheek against hers. 

She turned to face him, and leaned in to give him a lingering kiss. He pressed her up against the railing, deepening the kiss, but she pulled away after a moment with a breathless laugh. “We’ll miss our flight,” she said.

He blinked at her for a moment. “Yes, of course. The taxi should be waiting downstairs.” He bent to kiss her again, before going to collect their luggage.

***  
Once they were settled in their seats, she followed her usual routine of putting a case file for him and reading material for her in the seat pockets. He surprised her by leaning over to help her get the pillow adjusted behind her back. 

“Thanks,” she said. She sat back and waited for him to fasten his seatbelt, trying not to worry whether all of this was just some sort of Parisian dream—that he would want to return to just being business associates once they got back to New York and their familiar life. She looked up, slightly startled, when he took her hand and entwined her fingers with his. He lifted her hand to his lips for a quick kiss and she caught her breath. 

“Alright?” he asked, looking at her closely.

“Never better,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

 

***

Sherlock dropped their luggage on the floor as she closed the front door to the brownstone firmly behind them.

“Home sweet home,” he said, turning to her.

She laughed. “Shall I order us something to eat? Are you hungry?”

He shook his head as he stepped slowly closer to her. She stepped back, dropping her shoulder bag on the floor at her feet as he put his arms around her. He braced her against the wall as he kissed her thoroughly. She pulled him hard against her, sliding her hands under his jacket.

He pulled away to look at her, without releasing her. “I’ve been wanting to do that since—“

“The cab ride?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Forever,” he said, leaning down to kiss her again.


	27. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily is Joan's oldest friend. That doesn't mean Joan tells her everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #27 - "Aside from yourself, I have none." - Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be the anti-social one with Watson as his only friend. But who are Watson's friends outside of Sherlock Holmes?
> 
> Set sometime after "One Watson, One Holmes" (3x19) but before the season 3 finale. I gave Emily's daughter the name "Melissa."
> 
> “A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”  
> ― Elbert Hubbard

"Hey Em, sorry I'm late," Joan said as she slid into the booth across from Emily. "My mother called as I was leaving and you know how that is."

Emily laughed. "Do I ever. Don't worry, I hadn't given up on you yet. I'm just glad to get out of the house and have a conversation with an adult. I had the Cosmo to keep me company, too. Do you want a drink?" she asked as she waved over the server.

"That'd be great, yeah. I'm starving, too, so I'm ready to order if you are."

Drinks and dinner ordered, Joan rested her arms on the table. "So, what's new? I haven't seen you since Marnie's wedding - did you see her honeymoon pictures?"

"I did and I'm so jealous!"

"You guys should go - leave Melissa with your mom, and take a week in the Bahamas."

Emily laughed. "I'm not sure my mom can handle Melissa for a week, but it's a thought. Maybe next year, when she's a little older."

"Sure, sure. Tell your mom I'll take her for a day if that helps," Joan said with a smile. "She is still my favorite."

"What about you? Any interesting cases?"

"None that are suitable for dinner conversation, I'm afraid, but it's been busy."

"And how are you doing? I know the whole wedding thing was hard for you, with Andrew and everything--"

Joan sat back, folding her arms over her chest. "I'm fine. I shouldn't have made Marnie's wedding into a big thing about me."

Emily shook her head. "No, you were right, we were being a bit silly about it. The chance to pretend to be 22 and single again was too much to resist. But we could have been more sensitive about you, losing Andrew like that. It must have seemed so trivial."

"That's not exactly it, but thanks." She leaned forward again. "I didn't know what I was feeling--still don't, maybe."

Emily smiled. "Joanie, it's okay for you to tell people how you feel, you know. "

"I'm so tired of people telling me how I should deal with things. First Sherlock, and now you," Joan said, unable to hide the irritation in her voice.

Emily didn't flinch. "Well, I don't know what he told you, but I know he cares about you, and so do I. So you can talk to me or don't, but either way I promise I won't run away."

Joan sighed. "Yeah, I know."

"So…"

Joan took a sip of her drink and Emily waited, patiently. Finally, Joan said, "I was breaking up with him. Andrew. That day, right before--"

Emily reached across to touch her arm. "Oh God, why didn't you tell me?"

Joan shook her head. "It didn't matter. Still doesn't."

"Of course it does."

Joan shrugged.

"It doesn’t make it your fault."

"Yeah, you'd think that would help, wouldn't you?" Joan said. "It doesn't."

"Maybe someday it will," Emily said gently.


	28. Mel's Diner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and Sherlock and the worst coffee in Brooklyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #28: Bad, Bad, oh so Bad! Whether it's bad art, bad fiction, or just plain awful, let the badness inspire you in some way today. Take a bad song and make it better, or make it so bad it's good? It's up to you!
> 
> (all diners in this fic are fictional)

The text alert on her phone woke her far earlier than she would have liked. Joan rolled over and grabbed her phone from the floor by her bed.

"MT ME MELS DINR ASAP." She rubbed her eyes with one hand. Sherlock, of course. The phone chimed again. 

"URGENT RE CASE."

"On my way," she texted back quickly, before climbing reluctantly out of bed.

She found him at a table by the window, two cups of coffee on the table. At least he had ordered coffee for her already, she thought, as she slid into the seat opposite him. "What's the emergency?"

"I believe we have a break in the case," he replied, sliding the folder over to her.

She flipped it open as she took a sip of the coffee. "Ugh, that is the worst coffee I've ever tasted!" she said as she set the cup down again. 

"Oh yes, this is easily the worst diner in Brooklyn," he said cheerfully. He looked furtively over at the waitress, before saying quietly. "I wouldn't order any of the food. The coffee is probably safe."

"But undrinkable," she said, pushing it away. "So why are we here?"

He nodded out the window. "This is the only vantage point of that building. I believe our main suspect will be exiting the building shortly, to head to where he has hidden the files." He glanced over at the waitress, and Joan followed his glance to see her disappearing into the kitchen. "Finally. Here, dump that cup into the plant over there," he said, placing a paper bag on the table. "Quickly!"

She complied, returning to the table with her empty cup in time to see him pull a paper coffee cup out of the bag. 

"Here, this should be better," he said, pouring the coffee into the mug and quickly concealing the cup and bag again.

She took a sip and sighed. "Yes, much better, thanks."

He nodded, returning his attention to the building outside. "It wouldn't do for you to be distracted due to lack of caffeine. Sorry I can't do much about the food, but I'll make it up to you tomorrow with your favorite. Pancakes at the little café by the brownstone?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Those aren't my favorite."

He looked at her sharply. "Really? Based on the number of times you have suggested we go there, and how many times you've ordered those pancakes, that is clearly your favorite breakfast." He frowned, and she could almost hear him thinking. "Hmm, the crepes at the hotel then?"

She shook her head again, looking away to glance out the window. "Those are excellent, but still not my favorite."

He shifted in his seat. "What then?"

"That skillet-egg-casserole thing you make, with the bacon and everything. I don't know what you call it."

"That breakfast casserole _I_ make? That's your favorite?" he sat back, his hands flat on the table.

"Yes," she said firmly, taking another sip of her coffee and keeping her eyes on the building, but watching him from the corner of her eye. 

"Ah." He tugged on his shirt collar. "Very well."

A man in a long overcoat walked out of the front doors of the building they were watching. She glanced quickly at the picture in the case file to confirm as she said, "There he is."

Sherlock glanced out the window. "Yes, let's go," he agreed, dropping several bills on the table as they left. She looked longingly at the coffee still in her cup, but consoled herself with the thought of tomorrow's breakfast.


	29. The Hour of the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She dreads the early morning hours.  
> (sequel to chapter 1) (221b)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #29 - Picture Prompt - picture of a wolf

Joan sat at Sherlock's bedside, watching the monitors and counting the minutes until dawn. The surgery had gone well but she knew all too well how quickly things could change. The nurses had brought in a recliner for her, but she sat only on the edge of the seat. She leaned forward, her hands resting on the bed next to his arm, almost but not quite touching him. 

During her medical residency, she had dreaded these early morning hours when it seemed no one else was awake, and anything could happen within the hospital walls. Death seemed always to lurk outside, waiting for a single mistake or lapse of attention to swoop in and change everything. Later, when she was practicing, the three a.m. calls were always the worst, and the most likely to require a rushed, often futile, trip back into the operating room.

And now, these small hours were the most likely to bring the nightmares: visions of mistakes made and yet-to-come. For now, she resisted sleep, and the new nightmares that were waiting. Images of him bleeding out in front of her, or of a second bullet reaching her before she could reach him.

If she could make it until sunrise, the fears might be banished along with the dark. She could only hope, and wait, and breathe.


	30. Words of Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives a warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #30 - Words of Warning - "You are going to die tonight."

"Watson!" 

"In here," she called from the kitchen. She set her coffee cup down on the table and waited for him to appear in the doorway.

"One of our contacts in Everyone thinks he found a lead in the money laundering case. Here--" He handed her the tablet he was holding, pointing at one of the messages on the screen. "It's faster if you read it."

She took the tablet and turned it, scrolling back a little to get some context for the message. As she scrolled back, she stopped and looked up at him. "What is this?"

"Hm?" he asked. 

"This--" she turned the screen toward him again, pointing at one of the prior messages from another member. "This looks like a death threat. Against you."

"It's nothing. It's not relevant to the case," he replied, shaking his head impatiently.

"It doesn't look like nothing."

He shrugged. "Threats like that are part of their usual discourse. It's not personal."

She tapped on the name of the author of the message, and scrolled back through the other messages he had sent. "It looks pretty personal to me. You're the only one he's sent that kind of message to. Repeatedly."

He nodded. "Yes, he sends similar messages nearly daily. As you can see, I remain living, so--"

"Similar messages, but not the same, and they seem to be escalating. 'You're going to die tonight' seems more specific than he has been in the past." She continued scrolling through, scanning the messages, growing more concerned as she did.

" I assure you, such threats are meaningless. They are a part of being part of their community," Sherlock said.

"Well, I think we should let Captain Gregson be the judge of that." She picked up her phone. "Do you want to call him or should I?"

"I can take care of this myself. There's no need to involve the police."

"Not the police, just the captain."

"Watson--"

"Isn't tonight that exhibition you wanted me to go to? With you?" she asked, her eyebrows raised. 

He let out a long sigh, then reached for her phone.


	31. All the World's A Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's what the audience wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JWP #31: Putting on a Show. Canon is full of colourful characters, and we all know Holmes loves an audience for his deductions. Whether it's a grand gesture, breaking the fourth wall, or just the conclusion of a case in front of a crowd, make an audience part of today's entry.
> 
> Yeah, I broke the 4th wall. Sort of. I'm so sorry.

"This is ridiculous. I won't pander like that," he said, pacing the kitchen.

"Sherlock, it's what the audience wants. It's not so much to ask, is it?" Joan asked.

"I don't understand. I thought they were interested in the work, in the cases. Not in--" He waved his hand between them.

"They're also interested in our personal lives."

"And our relationship," he said.

"And our relationship," she agreed. 

"It's so intrusive," he said.

"I know. You are usually the first one to enjoy an audience."

"Only for the work. The rest…should be private."

She stepped forward. "For an audience of one, perhaps."

He moved toward her. "Yes. But.. I suppose one hug couldn't hurt."

"Alright," she said. "Next case where there's cameras, one hug." She stepped into his arms, letting him pull her closer.

"We should practice, just in case," he said, as his arms tightened around her. 

"Oh yes, rehearsal is important," she agreed with a laugh, as he bent to give her a kiss.


End file.
